Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warning:
Category:
Fandom:
Relationship:
Characters:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Stats:
Published:
2023-07-23
Completed:
2023-07-25
Words:
12,747
Chapters:
3/3
Comments:
1
Kudos:
13
Bookmarks:
4
Hits:
237

The Guardian of the Western Gate

Summary:

It’s fashioned after a formal invitation, golden embossed lettering over a black and white checkered background. It promises picnic baskets, a variety of drinks, a vintage car show, a rock & classics gig, and fireworks, on the seaside under the Seven Sisters, South Downs, two days from now.

Notes:

Sorry to report there's nothing about the trailer in this one. It's been in my draft for long before that, but managed to finish it is just now.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: Nebula

Chapter Text

 

“Beautiful nebula. Look at that. I helped build that one.”

 

[Before the beginning, mid-creation]

There was a lot to create, so much that, despite the beauty of it all, it had become repetitive. Most of the creatives involved were fed up with quiet yellow G class stars, and please do not even mention red dwarfs to aides, eighty-ineffable-five percent of every star to be made. Red tape has been named red for a reason, though when someone tempted humans into it, he said it was after his hair color.

So, when a mightier display was proposed, every top designer fought to be on board. What was to be known as the Carina Nebula, was meant as a centerpiece, much like the Pleiades. Of course, aides were to make the usual bulk of lower mass stars… but that would just be some glitter around the true jewels: a slew of glorious and blinding giants, worthy of the Almighty.

The plan was neat.

A first generation of star was made, standard work for aides again, and then exploded into a cloud of every other element needed to start the actual work.

Each designer would make their signature giant stars out of the cloud, and then their powerful combined stellar winds would wipe away any leftover dust, leaving only the brightest and purest light sources to be admired against a clean sterile background. Ultraviolet and blue giant stars, many in close pairs, scorching Wolf-Rayets and even rare luminous blue variables, there, made and placed.

The plan was neat and orderly, and it went down like a lead duck.

For unknown reasons, the leftover gas clouds didn’t dissipate, coalescing instead into darker globules and pillars. They tried accelerating time, in the hopes that the stellar winds just needed to pick up speed, only to have some of the giant stars burning through their fuel even faster, blowing up and spitting out yet more clouds… an open clusterfuck, which generated enough blame shifting to start the inflation phase in the early universe, as everyone tried to distance themselves from the mess. It abruptly ended when one Gabriel from planning launched the Magellanic clouds project: a neat way to distract the elite workforce far enough from the now multicolored smear to pretend it never happened, an even neater way to land himself a promotion. Archangel did ring so good.

Aides were left alone to finish… whatever is that aides do. Among them, the one that didn’t have his questions answered during kick-off meetings and had decided to get answers on his own. With innocent tests like stopping time around gas clouds, which led them to become too thick to be wiped away when the big stars were switched on.

Well, he was meant to get some practice. One day, he will need to stop time in a very difficult circumstance.

It went down quite well if you ask him. Twirling shining nuances against spooky darker clouds (bit like an angel wrestling with a demon): that’s a proper centerpiece.

 

[Present time, among the floating pages of Crowley’s astronomy book]

Whatever aides did, as far as one red-haired aide is concerned, included hiding newly minted stars inside thick clouds. That’s exactly what you can see on the same page Crowley is looking at. The top end of a pillar in the southern part of the Carina Nebula, dark dust illuminated by the giants stars outside, blasted by their radiations and, seemingly, with no light of its own.

And yet, if one was to look carefully, there are twin jets coming out of the pillar. The telltale sign of a very young star with its accretion disk, safe from the winds outside. It will grow planets from the leftover elements in the dust, like metals. And someday, someone will dwell there, and will dig them out to make lurex, which will be used as the mane for a toy unicorn, and a child who had a hard day will beam a happy smile as they comb it. A smile light-years in the making, and yet worth it, born from a spark that was given a chance to survive.

It’s not neat, nor orderly. But if someone was to ask to be shown a Great Plan, I’ll have an editor print that nebula on a new astronomy book, prominently featured in the gift ideas section of the catalogue they send out for Christmas to every bookseller in the London area, and just to make sure the hint will be noticed even by the most oblivious storeowner, the book will happen to be bound in a stylish black leather cover, and the ad will be positioned so that the circular stain from the cocoa mug that will be forgotten over it, will in fact encircle it when lifted.

The caption will say the star buried in the obscuring dust is classified as HH 666 IRS [1]. A star that has to grow its world in the dark, because outside with the other stars, it would be stripped away. The rumor that he did invent selfies, is therefore correct.

 

[Heaven offices, a few months before the beginning]

Gabriel (Archangel Gabriel, if you please) raises an eyebrow at the new project just delivered from on High. Looks like… a zoo for new creatures? Some unfinished beta judging by the fancy codename Eden, and the Archangel is all in favor of keeping experiments in strictly segregated areas.

Nothing like sandboxing to prevent issues from spilling among their ranks. Again. So, let there be a sandy desert all around, and then a tall wall. Two gates for maintenance (which can include emergency smiting) one facing East and one West - sunrise and dusk metaphors pair well with everything.

And a couple of guardians to watch over them. Could spare more, even with the shortage of wings after the ‘pruning’, but then… there’ll be more policies to be put in place to guard the guardians… The planned creatures seem so far lesser than any of them, won’t require much to be kept in check. Vast sun scorched dunes as far as the eye can see, should be message enough if these new pets can take a hint.

Which is all well and good. After the mess with the Fallen ones, after Creation has been wrapped up, there were worries the Almighty may decide Angels… weren’t up to Her needs anymore. And go and make something mightier to replace them. But this is clearly not what’s happening here, so, Gabriel relaxes and readies a neat and orderly schedule for building the whole thing, like the productive right-wing Archangel he is.

He gets back his plans approved and some feedback. Enough to know his work has received the proper attention, little enough to confirm his plan was good to begin with. It’s mostly about some odd tree to be placed in the center, and the choice of the two guardians.

The position of Guardian of the Eastern Gate is to be entrusted to the Principality Aziraphale.

Which confirms, not a big project. Middle rank angel, only reason Gabriel remembers him, the embarrassing number of footnotes in his reports. Maybes, but alsos, shoudn’t wes… there’s a reason why forms have binary answers. Compliance is a yes or no business and nuances are just a waste of everyone’s Grace.

Sure, Gabriel can’t exactly picture Aziraphale policing creatures, but probably the Almighty can’t too, and that’s why he’s going to be issued a sword. Which is not really for him, but this bit, I didn’t write it down. Gabriel wouldn’t understand anyway, and Aziraphale would know it himself. Sometimes, there’s simply no point in putting plans into words.

The blade is to be a flaming one, so Gabriel assumes it’s the sword that’s meant to do the scaring, but since it can’t swing itself, it’s been issued an Aziraphale to be carried around. Well, the Principality has training as a soldier, one right arm and two legs. Checked.

The position of Guardian of the Western Gate is listed as “to be provided by another department, when the time comes”. As far as Gabriel is concerned, that’s a checked too.

 

[Eden, the last days before the beginning]

Aziraphale is supposed to guard the Eastern Gate, not to leave its position. Leaving a gate unattended would be bad.

But oddly enough, there is no one guarding the gate on the western side. So, he’s taken to traverse the garden to patrol the other side too, from time to time. Strictly because leaving a gate unattended would be bad, certainly not for the daisy bouquets, the fruit drinks, or the new melodies the humans are humming or dancing to.

He’s to observe, not to interfere.

But wouldn’t smiling at them make them feel more secure? That’s what a good guardian does, radiate safety.

And may not a little chat prove useful, to spot any issue before it becomes a problem? Being proactive, that’s what it is.

Also, humans are tasked with assigning names to everything Eden holds, doesn’t that imply someone has to listen to keep records of it? Must be it.

The border walls are sterile enough for Aziraphale to keep finding new reasons to wander and wonder in the garden instead, but at this point of the story, he’s still a beginner at this game, spending most of his time watching over his assigned gate to please the procedure.

This leaves time aplenty for another being, one who had to learn faster to survive, to slither around unseen.

He’s to interfere, not to observe.

Nor to stare. But, that’s how gathering intelligence on the enemy is done, if you want to know when to strike unnoticed (he’d like to be noticed, but that will have to wait until the job is done). And if it takes him more days than it should, can’t fault him for taking the assignment seriously. (For longing for voices that do not scream, for a warmth that won’t burn into the flesh).

Cannot delay forever, though. Just another day. One last day to bask in the sun, and when it starts to lower on the horizon, he crawls from the garden to the wall, climbing up and up, until he’s over the gate at the western end, where the sun still reaches.

Looking out, all black scales and coiled questions. What would it be like, for them, to eat the fruit? Would it give answers? Or just trouble? Could not knowing be any better? Cage you cannot see, still a cage.

His slit eyes keep scanning the dunes, looking farther. What’s past them? This planet is so much bigger than the walled garden, must be a reason for it. He’s always looked farther. Crafting celestial bodies that span for light years, farther came with the job, and stayed even when that job was gone.

He keeps watch while the sun grows redder and softer. He keeps watch as the stars begin to sparkle - they don’t in outer space, it’s funny how they look different when seen from a planet – trying to spot his ones. Can’t go back. Would he, if he could? Stop asking to not fall? It’s always questions, never answers with him. Good thing probably his new job is only about the questions. Tomorrow, he’ll ask the humans. The time has come, for them to seek their own answers.

 

[After the Ritz, and a very good but now rather depleted pub]

Free now, meaning, he can do as his heart wants. Can he, really?

Because they are at his bookshop’s door, thanks the Bentley, and what his corporation’s presently very rapidly beating organ wants, is to nail the keyhole without sobering up, stumble inside, double tell the sign to be on the closed side, pull down the curtains, lock the world behind them, lower the lights, slam his (his, his, his) demon against the closest vertical surface (bonus points if it’s under the eastern mark) for stability, which they distinctly both lack at the moment.

And kiss him till Kingdom tries to come again.

Aziraphale focuses very hard on this very soberly conceived plan and goes through the above list in meticulous order – Heaven’s hammered into him the notion that nothing like strict adherence to a procedure ensures no doubts could creep in before is all said and done - but the very same alcohol that allowed him to hatch the plan is now causing it to take a bit more time than he had accounted for.

So it happens, an unplanned glitch right before the slam against vertical thingy milestone.

There’s no closest vertical surface.

Because his demon is very horizontal. He’s apparently headed straight, or whatever the best impression of moving straight a completely plastered snake brain could pull off, to the couch and crumpled all over it, leg over the back cushions, another on the far end, shoes and socks and jacket and necklace and belt randomly miracled across the floor alongside one forgotten hand still holding his glasses, the other arm twisted under him. Snake brain, again, not the best at limbs, especially after a whole lot of too much.

Completely asleep. It is so odd to see him still. He looks thin, without his usual puffing-up-my-cool-demon-feathers act. He looks easy to hurt.

Aziraphale’s plan comes to a screeching halt. What on… on… well, Earth, was he thinking, anyway?

Crowley deserves so infinitely better than a drunken make-out session, without a word beforehand about, oh Someone, what he’s ended up saying at the bandstand? What he’s left him to deal with? “Forces of hell figured out it was my fault” Crowley’s said, and it truly registered only when Uriel pointed out the demon was in trouble, not off in the stars. He’s been so focused on his call upstairs that he’s left Crowley with no other option than.

Go home alone and unscrew that cap.

‘I rather made a mess of things’, subtitle of his whole existence.

‘And here you are, planning to start taking from him again, because you know he’s going to give you anything if you ask, and even when you don’t, while for all your love, holy and earthly, and in spite of all your books, you’ve never been able to find the words to keep him safe without hurting him yourself, you pathetic excuse…’

An emergency sober up initiates before things could spiral worse. No. He is definitely not going to repeat to himself a single sentence Heaven has spit towards him. Enough of that.

Half a mile away, a pub owner will find that his missing stock is back in half-filled, oddly warm, opened bottles piled on a single table, none of the contents matching the labels, but smelling rather heavenly. He will decide it best not to speculate and schedule a blind tasting contest for Sunday to make some earnings out of the leftovers.

In the bookshop, tea is made.

“To gross matter” the angel toasts quietly, a pale smile back on his face, then slowly sips, finally realizing how completely drained he’s too. Nowhere near the state of mind he needs to properly Talk Things. Not today, not for a while. So much happened, they just powered thought it all trying to keep their world in one piece, no time to elaborate. Maybe it’s been a grace. Would have been way scarier otherwise, wouldn’t it?

They’ve never been free before, not once in their several millennia long existences.

Free. He ought to let Crowley be free, feel free, not to bind him. Let him have time and space to understand what he could want, he has choices now.

There’s a sound of fabric against fabric, and Aziraphale steps back toward the couch. Crowley has curled up, legs and arms folded tightly against his chest, the closest his leggy corporation could get to the coiled ball of spires his other form feels safer to sleep in. He seems to loosen up a tad as the Angel comes closer. They can feel each other’s presence, their senses wider than the earthly plane. Would Crowley sleep better if he could feel him nearby?

Or, how about he drops the excuses and acknowledges how much he yearns to stay close to his demon?

This, he could let himself have now.

He breathes deeply, hand pressed against his mouth to hush a lone sob, he isn’t going to start weeping and wake Crowley up. He slowly gathers his armchair, softly placing it right in front of the couch, not even thinking about fetching a book. He already has everything he wants to look at, and finally, time to, in every detail. The fiery shade of his hair, the way the ends are beginning to relax out of his precise hairstyle to fall into his natural loose curls, his angular face that can wear so soft expressions when he thinks no one is looking, the lines of his collarbones and the planes of his shoulders, slender fingers he would very much like to hold within his own again.

His quiet breathing, just like the humans he’s so similar to. Creators, all of them. Every being Aziraphale has fallen in love with, has been a creator. And every spark of theirs, it doesn’t matter how important, the whole universe or a garden, a star or a new excuse for lunch, a rare book or a roll of sushi, Aziraphale cherishes it.

Especially the silliest ones. No one of all his academic friends over the ages, if asked about debate topics between immortal beings, would have guessed “plant misters”. And yet, a week into their “godfathering” in the ambassador’s residence, that’s what they’ve spent an evening just going on about, with Crowley trying to drill some basic gardening notion into Aziraphale (gardens, not really what he handled best)… and there’s been dolphins, ducks, crêpes, all the silly things that made a language for just the two of them to say without voicing.

Aziraphale never slept much but would often rest reading his favorites books over and over, savoring every line, tracing every illuminated detail, mulling over each thought that made them. He keeps watch over Crowley in the very same way [2], rising from the armchair only four and a half days later, to brew a cup of coffee to a stirring demon who’s throwing around his long limbs, all six of them, like a very uncoordinated baby pigeon, and yawning like he’s reading his jaw to swallow an aardvark whole.  

 

[2nd of July]

He’s left Crowley time and space, and the only use he’s made of it so far has been to stick around, thank Her for that, whether or not that’s the proper holding address for a gratitude he hasn’t been able to deliver to the intended recipient yet.

He has delighted in every night Crowley has spent in the bookshop, in his so-done face in the morning before coffee, in the book fair in Paris he’s decided to visit just to give Crowley a chance to have time alone, only for the demon to start planning the itinerary using a ‘we’.

And he has thoroughly enjoyed their growing collection of tactically arranged cacti, Crowley’s answer after he’s made clear no plant that needed misting was allowed near the bookshelves (but they were very welcome to be coddled upstairs, ngk).

Nothing deters customers like a spine into their grabby fingers.

But Aziraphale has also mourned, more than he likes to admit or show, for a family lost. And felt so stupid for counting as loss people who wanted him dead and lies he has tried to live up to for so long. Maybe he was mourning what Heaven could have been, should have been, and his stubborn hope for them to listen, to change. All dead when the Metatron answered “War” and the only response in his mind in that moment had been “Crowley”, filling up all his cracks and keeping him going.

He’s lost his home, both, only to realize his demon has kept their side ready for him all along, to catch him before he could even feel a fall, guessing an angel that collected books and prophecies, was bound to find answers, and need a new home for it, one day. His flat, his side.

He doesn’t know how he could have faced it alone, he doesn’t know how Crowley has faced truly Falling alone, and he doesn’t know what though is more painful. What he knows is, his demon always has ideas for new places to visit together as soon as he sees the angel stare into a mug of cold cocoa.

All places that seem to be reachable only through long, winding roads, incidentally.

It’s an artisanal brewery on a hillside today, old walls and a long cast iron pergola, covered in wisteria that has just been ordered to bloom, or else.

Over the lovely turquoise vintage tables, among leaflets for snacks and souvenirs, there’s a most interesting advertisement. It’s fashioned after a formal invitation, golden embossed lettering over a black and white checkered background. It promises picnic baskets, a variety of drinks, a vintage car show, a rock & classics gig, and fireworks, on the seaside under the Seven Sisters, South Downs, two days from now.

It seems just perfect. And it rather is, the plan may be ineffable but sometimes a little bit of it can be tempted into motion by properly formatted human words.

And Aziraphale needs something to interrupt the standoff between his demon and the wisteria, which is calling the bluff. The vine has not bent to newlyweds’ whims all spring and it’s not going to start with those two.

It works. Crowley drops his call upon locusts [3], along with his jaw and the use of vowels, the instant the angel utters “picnic”.

Oh dear, time to ask it seems.

 

Chapter 2: Eve said it first

Summary:

The Bentley ships them

Chapter Text

 

[4th of July, dawn]

Crowley hasn’t stayed the night and Aziraphale hasn’t even made a token attempt at stopping him.

He’s feeling guilty about it, he’s made a point of letting Crowley free to come and go but also tried to show him how welcome to stay he was... he’s quite convinced he’s failed at both. He’s not Crowley, who always found ways to let Aziraphale be certain of how dear he was to him, no matter his demonic nature, no matter their sides, no matter the stakes and how many rejections he met him with.

While here he is, a being supposedly created to show love with every breath, their former sides turned away, and yet still failing his demon.

But he really needed time to privately fuss over today’s picnic.

What to say, how to say it, what could he attempt? His hand, could he hold his hand again? Oh, he wants so badly, but when? Cannot eat with one hand only. At the concert? But. He’ll have to let go at the end of each song to clap. It’s rude to not clap, you’re expected to clap, you cannot clap holding hands, hence. Fireworks. Most romantic moment, right? But what if he missed the hand in the dark and just hit him on a rib? Or, would there be a packed crowd, what if he took the wrong hand and ended the night decked by a jealous wife? So after? Could he even survive until after? And after, Crowley would be driving, his long, elegant fingers better be on the wheel, and Aziraphale’s hearth would be all upset he’s failed all day and rushing it at the bookshop door would be even worse…

Let’s just briefly put hands aside. Kiss?

Just the thought has him looking upward, out of habit, to plead for strength from Her. To kiss a demon. Oh G… Som… Fuck. Oh fuck, not fuck!

His wings pop out and curl in on their own – is facewinging even a word - uselessly trying to shield him from a mess that is regrettably all within.

Well. He ought to try and fix the outside at least. Outfit. Why doesn’t he start with the outfit, it’s supposed to be a special day, it should show. That should be easy, and anyway you cannot go to a picnic naked…

Picnic. Naked. Oh please, just stop thinking already.

 

[4th of July, late afternoon]

He wakes up hissing again, no more than a few minutes since his last epic fail at sleeping. Drunk or astoundingly more drunk, the bookshop keeps burning when he’s not sleeping inside of it. Blackens and turns into ashes, shelf by shelf, every lost book Angel found, sheltered, lovingly restored. They all burn. Like only discarded, worthless - fallen - things should be left to. He’s not there, left him alone, the last he’s said, last Angel’s heard from him…

Too fast for 6000 years and the one time Aziraphale needed him fast, he’s been too slow. Too late. Can’t fail harder.

And picnic, ‘s only a common word, seeing too much in it, Angel just wants to eat outdoors, what else would one call it?

Angel’s free to ask for more now. He does not.

He’d know, had he stayed at the bookshop, there’s nothing special brewing, just a day out and dinner. Should be more than enough to be happy, more than a demon has any right to. Shouldn’t feel like his hopes blacken a bit every day.

Shouldn’t need to hide in the flat to not see how unchanging everything is. Hide for a few hours of dreams. Even picked a cool outfit in case…

Just got nightmares, and no time left to miracle something else now, he’ll be lucky to manage a sober up cause’s kind of hard to snap fingers in a form that has none. Can’t even find his tail, commendable job truly, drunk, one knot with the sheets, frayed and doomed to go out dressed like he has expectations embarrassing both of them. And late. Again.

 

[4th of July, slightly later afternoon]

Aziraphale doesn’t often change looks, but decade after decade, he’s managed to pile up a decently sized wardrobe. Humans put so much creativity and craftmanship into every piece, discarding a garment would feel like disrespecting their work, hence, he kept them all. And even with a limited number of pieces, the possible permutations are so many. It so happened, Aziraphale took until now to settle on one combination. Leaving no time to panic about anything else. He’s quietly resigned to fail and propose another picnic next week, then another… hopefully this is going to be a long sunny summer.

From the street comes the resigned cry of tires decelerating a vehicle from too many miles per hour to no miles at all, in nowhere near enough space-time. No one leaves the car, and the engine stays on. Crowley must be in a mood.

Well. Aziraphale checks his reflection one last time in the coffee shop window. Slightly better-defined curls, stone white light trousers and pure white summer coat, a darker shirt than his usual, storm cloud blue with a paler matching ascot and a sand-colored silk waistcoat. He’s not sure why it felt like the right selection of colors, but the young cashier seems to agree.

“Going to a wedding?” they say smiling appreciatively, and he hardly stops himself from glowing. A little thumbs up to face the rest of the day, he really needed it. “Hopefully, someday!” he voices back, reaching for the door while sending a brief thankful blessing over the employee.

The Bentley is kind enough to open her door for him, and he drops in focused on not spilling the takeaway coffee cup. Old habit, their non-verbal happy to see you.

Then he takes in Crowley.

He’s not looking back, gaze stubbornly somewhere in front of him, expression stiff like expecting… some kind of blow. And yet he is…

Sandals, glossy black enamel. Long legs and hips draped in a black sarong, a dark red tie-dye pattern mid height resembling scales. A tightly fitting short sleeved shirt is over it, dark charcoal cotton, likely handloom, the threads slightly irregular and sparse. Soft. Underlining the shapes below instead of adding angles, the first buttons undone under an embroidered band collar. A copper version of his usual necklace is around it, and copper, with little snake heads, are also the bangles on his wrists. His hair is longer, just grazing his shoulders, curly like… in the beginning. Partially tied up in a bun with black leather threads, scattered with tiny copper beads, cascading down among the loose red waves. Like his locks weren’t glowing enough on their own under the lowering sunlight.

“It was flaming like anything” he had said, back then. Why hadn’t he thought of answering “Nowhere as shining as your curls”?

Crowley’s eyes may be barricaded behind his usual glasses - just with copper accents instead of chrome - but Aziraphale can tell he’s tense and weary. And still not looking, or talking, probably for the best as the angel’s throat feels too tight for words.

Which is the only reason he’s not spilling “I love you” here and there.

But he’s suddenly certain he’ll say it before the day ends. He’d be impossible not to, to the being at his side, fiery, beautiful, both so strong and so scared. Waiting for him to say something, so he does his best to sort out his voice again, and along the way, to find the audacity for a little change in the cup. “Coffee, my dearest boy?”

Crowley seems to hear the underlying smile and risks a glance. And Angel is smiling, his smile that has him inevitably melted into a puddle of (very poorly) demonic goo. No Grace left in Heaven, ‘s all here in his smile.

The rest of the picture in front of him is like a double flash back. The colors, the ones he sees in his sporadic good dreams. Stormy clouds over pale walls and bright sand, a thank you and the bow of a white wing over his head. Telling him he was still worthy of care, still capable of giving care.

And he was made to create and to tend, and while Her Grace may have burned away, the yearning to care had not. After all, giving a damn is the root cause of questioning, but the universe hadn’t know what to do with him. Too many doubts for Heaven, too many fucks given for Hell, and then there was the Garden in between, too small even for the humans, and he was there to break it already, ruining the day of the gorgeous Angel on the wall.

Not really the best moment for a meet cute, but there may never be another, so. Smite wish, granted: the Angel, a warmhearted brave nut, both the most heavenly and the least heavenly being he’s ever came across, thanked him. For easing his doubts, and he wasn’t even trying, him, dark slithering thing whose entire shtick was more doubts. Thank you. No place in the whole expanse of the creation to fit him, and suddenly he fit entirely under just one of this Angel’s wings. Sometimes it’s like the wing never moved away. If only it would move closer.

Maybe. Angel’s changed style. No ordinary day, maybe. They’re in the Bentley and Aziraphale is offering him a fluid container. A tartan patterned one. ‘Maybe one day we could, don’t know, go for a picnic’. He really meant it then? Is it really today?

Slowly, his fingers wrap around the cup, reach for the lid.

“Don’t…” the angel starts, then he seems to occur to him, saying to not touch the cap may be a bit too much on the deja-vue lane.

“Isn’t holy, is it? Finally getting rid of foul fiends?” comes the reply, half joke, chill demon me, no puddle at all, half yes, I remember, ‘course I do.

“Just steamy hot” Aziraphale beams back fondly “so careful not to scald that tongue of yours. Would be a pity not to savor our fi…” brief internal scream and recalibration “… finger food. Treats. All the tastings, at the fair…”

Maybe one day, they could just say thank you. So, since thinking is clearly overrated, Crowley says it with a quick peck on the cheek of his favorite treat.

The Bentley does a good job of autonomously inserting herself in the traffic, she doesn’t really know the direction, but that’s fine, just need to keep their appearances up for them until they get their ethereal brains down to Earth again.

 

[4th of July, South Downs, dusk]

To Crowley’s dismay, he has to forego his routine of picking the most outrageous no-parking area. As soon as the organizers of the evening lay eyes on the Bentley, they remove the floral barriers and hurry them to the center of the town square, where the vintage cars are to be admired.

The place feels so merry, old town with bricks and stones, bright storefronts, flowers and buntings, violin notes in the air, an odd mix of old lanterns with colored glasses and sleek clean led lights shining on the crowd and the food stands like a blessing from above.

All in all, a bit on the sickeningly perfect side of things, so Crowley set out to spice it up. Somehow, the power supply fails, and the pure led lights have (not before a few minutes of dusk bathed darkness during which minor mischief and first kisses may or may not have increased across town) to be hooked up to the heavy-duty old diesel generator of the nearby town hall.

It isn’t really a town fair if it doesn’t smell of oil exhausts, after all.

And shortly after, bystanders are being treated to a series of heated exchanges between vintage car owners and prospective buyers, as the paint jobs oddly start to peel off any fake part, revealing concealed flaws and patches of rust. Never underestimate the chaotic evil potential of toddlers hearing ‘please yourself on your replica gear stick’ and inquiring their parents about it, maybe tomorrow, maybe in the middle of lunch with grandma-in-law.

Meanwhile, the Bentley is doing her part tempting collectors, all polished and unblemished sleek bodywork under the lights, putting to shame any Rolls-Royce nearby. The demon is coming up with increasingly creative excuses as to why she’s not for sale, with a solid back-up from Aziraphale and his decades long experience in denying people his books. The perks of being the car of immortal beings: two guardian angels and a whole crowd awing her. Worth that little bit of burning really.

Even with all these endeavors going on, as soon as they start exploring the food booths, Angel overtakes him in the temptations count. Just the way he closes his eyes and ooohes and mmmhs while savoring the latest treat he’s sinking his teeth in, is throwing people down the gluttony path faster than an approaching Lent. The food stalls won’t even need a formal blessing to end the night sold-out.

Crowley ends up trying some morsels himself. Can’t really can’t, when those soft fingers are wiggling bits of whatever Angel’s having, right in front of his lips.

An indirect way to taste how Angel’s lips are tasting... and reach cheek autoignition with that thought.

“Oh, was that one really so spicy?”

The answer is a Ngk, that flavor of Ngk which begs to not be scrutinized further, and Aziraphale decide to have mercy and hand him a sample of ale from the nearby stand. Though, the wily reptile should be expecting some flirting back, what with all his sauntering around in that breathtaking outfit and adorned curls, glittering like a bride walking the aisle, light and shadows dancing along the lines on his long fingers, legs, neck, and blessed be the cool ocean breeze for keeping the red of his own cheeks in check. Mostly, but he can plausibly fault the wine for the rest.

The crowd around them is growing merrier as the alcohol leave bottles and barrels, and Aziraphale suddenly realizes how late it is. They were supposed to fill the baskets they were given at the stalls entrance with a choice of threats, and then go enjoy them sitting down in the grass along the seaside stroll. But with so many tastes to try, and so many people around every corner, nowhere seemed private enough to sit down for long. And yet. It seems so fitting to be celebrating among the humans. It’s their side, after all.

The hosts seem to be better at timekeeping than the angel, the loudspeaker announcing the start of the concert in just fifteen minutes down on the beach, right at the peak of the happier part of the collective inebriation.

It occurs to Aziraphale that he’s not drunk much, but still more than Crowley. His demon stuck to the tiny plastic cups offered for tasting, no matter how good the stuff was, not a single whole bottle has miracled itself in their basket in the entire evening. The angel tries to not ponder why he may be staying sober, and that his time is running out. The concert is going to last one-hour tops, then everybody will find themselves a nice spot to watch the fireworks, they’ll be over in minutes, and… well. As they leave the town center his eyes fall on the coastline and the steep white cliffs, just right of where they are, the blunt naked ending of a world looking over the beginning of another. That’s how it feels to be at the end of a six thousand years’ wait?

As they follow the flow of people going down the path to the beach, he tries to focus on the sounds and the smells of humanity around them instead. That’s the truest blessing of all, isn’t it? Those fleeting, chaotic, dark and brilliant other children of Her, always crafting, always seeking, always heading farther - they never stopped, not since that first push from the sparkling being at his side – carrying the two of them along for the journey.

Sometimes he wonders, if Crowley hasn’t given them just an apple, but a bit of himself too.

While he feels like he’s yet to find his new place among them.

His life has always been centered around Heaven’s plans, first to obey, then to circumvent them. Finding his own way is not easier. On a more immediate worry, finding his footing on the sand while wearing Oxfords.

“Don’t you remember how better it is barefoot? See?”

The bare feet of his demon are suddenly right in front of his path, enameled toes wiggling and copper anklets clinking.

“C’mon, miracle your shoes back in the Bentley, Angel!”

It comes out on its own.

“Am I, still?”

“What”

“An angel. You know, supposed to mean messenger of God, but. It’s not like I’ll be delivering many messages from on High, from now on.”

“That’s not, at all, what it means.”

“It is, though. Comes from the Greek, angelos, messenger, envoy. Not sure what I am, but I don’t fit the definition anymore.”

“Greeks got it wrong. Never supposed to mean glorified homing pigeon.”

“I was around when the Greek language come into his own,” and to be honest, Gabriel as a pigeon, a strutting nuisance using Earth as his litterbox, seems a rather fitting description “they certainly knew their way with words. And I’m quite knowle…” he’s saved mid rant from a fall by snapping fingers, miracling away shoes and socks. The demon tries to not lose the point of this conversation despite the appearance of those beautiful, rounded toes curling in the sand, because if there’s one thing that cannot be allowed to stand, is Aziraphale thinking little of himself.

“You may’ve been ‘round when they botched that translation, but I was around when the word was invented, so I do know better.”

“Well, enlighten me” he sighs, kneeling to roll the legs of his trousers up to a considerate mid-calf “What was it for, some ale brand down in Babylonia?”

“It was Eve. Our Eve said it first.”

 

Chapter 3: Fireworks time

Summary:

But not before a few hiccups.

Chapter Text

 

[Tigris marshes, 3909 b.c.]

There’s a tent made of lion skins, he can still tell which is that first one from the burnt marks. That first day, they still had to work out how the flaming bit of the sword could switch on and off.

An old Eve sits on the threshold, looking after her many gran-grandchildren, telling stories by the fire. It’s dark enough for a black snake to come close without being noticed. He’s checking which of the toddlers are of tempting age, if you ask him, but just the checking on them part is true.

“Your necklace, who invented it?” asks one of the kids, pointing.

“That was Adam. We travelled a lot, but liked this place by the river most. He picked the pebbles in these waters, drilled holes in the stones one by one. So that a bit of this place could stay with us even as we wandered away to follow the herds. Here is where we built a home again. But… before, we had to invent strings, strong ones, because this necklace is a rather heavy gift, though it’s worth carrying…”

“And who did the strings?”

“I did, of course!” she laughs “Quite useful, aren’t they? Waved from grass, or from the mane of our prey, I’ll teach you all about making strings! Because to know…” she seems to be drawing up a balance before continuing “It is an important gift. It is worth carrying. So that in your time, you may create wonderful things too.”

“And the tent? Who did it first?” “And the earrings?” “The first soup?” “And my toy buffalo?” “My bowl! Who?”

A true barrage of questions. The snake wiggles among the grass, feeling a wave of pride, a tiny bit his too, these kids, after all. Meanwhile, Eve is doing her best to answer them all. Such a kind mother, Eve, always explaining, always forgiving, and so smart. And sassy. Crawly thinks she may have taken more than a bit after a certain bright being while growing up.

“And who invented the fire? You or Adam?” another toddler asks.

“A very good question, that one, as fire is the most important. Fire warms, hardens tools, cooks, shows where perils are, guards our sleep, marks where home is. But we didn’t invent fire…” a smile, warm and fond despite some missing teeth, brightens her face “A gift, it was. Angel’s gift to us.”

“Angel?” all the kids ask in awe.

 

[4th of July, early night under the Seven Sisters]

“You told me, whatever name the mortals assigned to a being, that was to be their name.”

“Yes, and that’s why I started collecting scrolls, actually. Keeping up with the names, making sure their decisions were recorded. May have overdone it a bit.”

“But you still missed this one, so let me tell you, what definition gave Eve for ‘Angel’ to her gran-grandchildren, to pass down to theirs. She told, they once had a home, but lost it.” as did I “They felt wrong, confused, scared,” and it hurt “everything had been perfect in their home but them. Mistakes,” fallen, “tainted. Yet the other being in the Garden, the most perfect being there, all light and strength” and kind warmth “was at their side, shielding them from Heaven’s ire” and rain “giving them freely what he had” your smile “his sword, from which the fire came, so a piece” a memory “of himself could always guard them. And remind them they were not forgotten, even as they wandered far away” even in the deepest pits.

“That’s what Angel means, the one who had faith in them” who trusted me “when there was no reason left too. Eve didn’t give that name to a bunch of frauds up in some Pantheon using mortals to settle scores, but to you. Her definition of Angel, is you. Angel means Aziraphale, ‘s your name. So yes, you still are” my Angel “Eve’s Angel, and her gran-grandchildren’s, and gran-gran-gran…” he concludes, opening his arms to encompass all the people around them “Their Guardian Angel, by their own appointment, not for Heaven’s one.”

He’s blurted it all in a rush, long finger jabbing his Angel in the ribs included (soft, soft, soft and yet sturdy, he falls asleep thinking at that chest since he falls asleep) before he could think > feel > hiss, now it’s out, and… just how can a beach of half-drunk people sound so silent?

He was aiming for comfort, but he reckons he must have missed the mark by a few light years, because his Angel looks frozen. Like instead of reassured, he’s being run over by one of those freight trains that seem to go on and on in the night with no end in sight.

Which is a rather accurate impression, since Aziraphale is busy being hit by the full weight of every single ‘Angel’ his demon has uttered his way in their long, intertwined lives.

The final sound check begins on the concert stage, putting a merciful end to the stillness.

“Nghhhh… I… jussst… Concert ‘bout to start, find a place where sssound is good, yes?”

’m sorry, demon, don’t do comfort. Just… please come along? He finds himself instinctively reaching out to pull his silent Angel, pulling his hand back just in time to avoid another too-fast incident on top of whatever he’s just said wrong. And damn my ‘wear something without pockets so your hands will always be available for him to take should he, ever, somehow, wish to, plan. There’s only so many fix hair and reposition glasses gestures one can fit in a minute without looking completely crazed, what’s a snake supposed to do with hands all the time?

Thankfully, as soon as he’s a few steps away, Aziraphale shakes himself out of wherever he was, to follow him. That’s how it worked for centuries, isn’t it? So that’s what Crowley does, walks a bit farther ahead, scouting. Trying to locate a vacant stop in the rows of benches laid on the beach, in front of a makeshift podium that looks quite in need of a blessing to last the night (should it deserve it). There’s a spot at the very end of one of the foremost rows, can fit just one, and maybe it’s better this way. As Angel is sat down, Crowley coils himself down on the sand just a little behind his bare feet. Mostly to not crowd him, but also, he’s last seen those calves up close at the Bastille and there were still socks in the way. He’s not missing out on them - not even to create havoc slithering in snake form under the benches. They have no quota to meet anymore, after all, whatever tempting or blessing they still do, is their choice.

Soon the white lights go off, replaced by speckles of pale blue light dancing all around the beach, golden and sea green flickers in between. Almost like the light artists took one look at Angel’s eyes and correctly determined nothing ever could be better inspiration. Just a few spotlights roam over the orchestra, all dressed in alternate black and white, as they start playing. It’s a smaller ensemble than the usual, and Aziraphale is unlikely to recognize most songs, but Crowley has hopes (he always has some) he may enjoy some modern music if adapted for a more classical set of instruments.

His face, because of course Crowley’s absolutely to spend the whole gig looking at his Angel’s face, seems perplexed at the slow start of what turns out to be “Living on a prayer” but as soon as the tempo and the volume pick up, he can see him relaxing and smiling, his bare left foot following the rhythm. It’s just instrumental at first, until two singers walk on stage for the refrain in the second half, joined by a good part of the performers themselves doubling as chorus.

There’s a Beatles medley after, even Angel knows some here, then Abba with a nice and twirling light show. It’s nothing too fancy and it’s way less refined what they’re used in concert halls, but, for a small gig like this, it shows a lot of passion and hours of rehearsal, and Crowley can see how much Angel lights up at the dedication these humans are pouring into it. And as soon as he recognizes the beginning of Bohemian Rhapsody, a favorite of the Bentley, he turns to Crowley for a quick but knowing smile. Angel looks happy. Angel looks so radiant, his curls bathed in the blue and golden lights, that Crowley could willingly face that blasted airstrip every other Saturday to see him so unburdened. He’s back looking at the stage now, but Crowley can see him mouthing the words, Beelzebub bit included. They’re probably having a fit of nausea down there and will never guess it’s because an Angel of the Lord is happily singing their name.

Then the two singers take center stage as the next song begins, looking longingly at each other. A duet, then?

I had this perfect dream - Un sueño me envolvió - This dream was me and you - Tal vez estás aquí

Aziraphale doesn’t recognize it for ‘Barcelona’, but the words pull him out of his delight for the music, back to just the two of them. To the beautiful being, here, literally at his feet, sarong artfully draped around his long legs, lights shining on the dark glasses he still needs to hide behind at all times, lest pitchers and fork come forth. Even now, in freedom, they’re not equal…

I want all the world to see

Aziraphale suddenly stands up from the bench, turns, and before Crowley can ask what’s wrong, he’s flopping down in the sand, right at his side.

My guide and inspiration - Now my dream is slowly coming true

For some reason, both of his demon’s hands are presently buried to the wrists into the sand, but bugger all questions. He just digs the closest one out and wraps it in his.

(Barcelona) It was the first time that we met - (Barcelona) How can I forget - The moment that you stepped into the room - You took my breath away

There’s a muffled ngk, barely audible over the now full orchestra, a sound so small that the Angel realizes he’s the one who ought not to go too fast now. So, he pretends to focus again on the stage, but doesn’t let go, his thumb slowly caressing sand and tension away from the back of his demon’s hand.

And if God is willing - We will meet again - Someday

And maybe She was. Seeing as they’ve met, again and again, until the end of the world, until today. Aziraphale doesn’t let go when the song ends, not when everyone is standing and clapping. Not when the lights from the stage are redirected towards the shoreline and everyone else leaves the benches for the dancing part of the gig.

But by the time the music begins again, he’s come to a decision. He pulls himself up and easily draws his demon along. With one exception, he’s worse at dancing than at being Heaven’s employee, and that’s rather the point. He’s done trying to be flawless, he just wants to be happy, and anyway, his best decisions have consistently been his worst. Misuse of Heaven issued weapons, slacking off, falsifying reports, tempting humans (and one demon), wasting miracles on table reservations from Petronious onwards, losing one Antichrist, dodging draft... Dancing among the waves to an orchestra arrangement of questionable music will fit nicely the trend, and being as he is, holding the hand of the most stunning creature on this beach, it would be incredibly remiss of him not to politely bow and ask “May I have this dance?”

Well, both most stunning and most stunned creature, and Aziraphale is just warming up. While waiting for his demon to recover some version of his tongue, he miracles away his white coat to the Bentley. People around them are sending water just about everywhere while dancing along the crests of the shallow waves, so better to save the coat from the salt. Totally works as excuse.

There’s a happy car horn echoing in the distance as the garment reaches its temporary storage location, and Aziraphale takes it as an endorsement to keep sending away clothes. His ascot follows, thus leaving exposed a.

Bit.

Of.

Collarbone.

Last seen in Rome, 41 A.C.

Crowley exhales his brain.

Then gets pulled anyway, rather mercilessly, toward the waterline, where the sudden cold under his feet lets him recover enough presence to stop and fold up his sarong. Angel’s in the mood for less clothing? Four calves can play this game.

In fact, by the time the third song begins, Aziraphale has unbuttoned his cufflinks, the Bentley has sent her blessings again, so now Angel is, slowly and deliberately, the theatrical bastard, stripping while the music plays. (Aziraphale is just rolling up his sleeves, but Crowley is a theatrical dreamer, with plenty of imagination and plenty of hope, which make for the most daring flights, and sometimes, for the sharpest falls. He never knows which until he tries). Angel’s uncovering pale wrists, and then, song after song, round forearms covered in silky, sunshine-white curls. It’s not just that, it’s that anytime those soft hands are done with a fold, they then return to the demon, each time landing a bit closer to his main body. One is so up his arm that is basically on his shoulder.

He's not complaining. What’s the most remote opposite of complaining? That’s him, right now (It’s not, by any definition, praying for it. A demon doesn’t pray, a demon... stoically tries to remain one with his corporation).

Aziraphale has one hand on his shoulder. Aziraphale is happy and smiling (and has a hand on his shoulder) laughing and enjoying himself (he twirls under Crowley’s raised hand, then places back the hand on his shoulder) even if they're both appalling at dancing and just trampling in the low water getting themselves soaked. Angel’s not worried, not second guessing himself (most definitely not, in that regard, has the hand on his shoulder being mentioned already? Warm, gentle, steadily getting closer to his neckline now).

And he’s still an Angel, probably giving off love in thick waves, if the widespread joy and bliss on the beach is any indication. He is the most precious being in the whole creation and nothing, even in the gleaming core of the biggest galaxies, compares to the sparkle in his eyes tonight.

Crowley may have failed to be himself and yet please Her, but Angel has not. He’s so smart and brave his Angel, always been. Got away with giving away his sword. Was worth waiting for him, trying to steer him away from the coldness of Heaven, be rejected when he pushed too much, separated for decades at times...

But now Angel is free in a world that suits him, without ever knowing the pain of falling and burning.

He’s not screwed up this one.

There’s a sudden blush on his Angel’s face, pale eyelashes lowering, and the demon tune in back on the currently playing song.

We could be lazy on a summer day – and if you wanted, we could walk away

That’s one of Fools’ Garden, he remembers them, cause, like him, got their fame from a tree.

Won’t you be my lover – we could walk right through the rain

We could hold each other – on this lazy summer day

Aziraphale is biting his lips. He’s looked away at the unexpected verses, feeling caught red-handed, and missed whatever expression may have passed on his demon’s face. But these bebop songs… they repeat the refrain, don’t they? Just need to… get closer… bit closer, the other hand too, some balance may be needed shortly, and wait…

When you don’t at least give it a try with a kiss

Oh, oh very much oh.

We could be lazy on a summer day

He’s not sure he’s doing it or not (he absolutely is) but it’s been a perfect summer day, many perfect summer days since they’ve walked away, and he’s brimming with a fondness he can’t contain anymore, and Crowley is so close, not saying a word as Aziraphale lets his fingers over the edge of the collar, tips brushing against his long, elegant neck, but he’s looking back, tilted a bit downward, almost like he’s willing him even closer, waiting…

and if you wanted we could walk away

He’s kept him waiting too long, far more than any should want to, for a stubborn Angel, but here he is, just half a step more

Won’t you

and then he tiptoes a bit, weight shifting, fingers grazing a red curl, closer

be

tilting his face up, just time enough to close his eyes away

my

There’s a sudden booming sound, loud enough that Aziraphale can hear it over the booming in his own chest, then another, then more, and everyone instinctively stops and turns. The song comes to a discordant end, and someone at the loudspeaker, someone who is apparently popping bubble wrap in front of the microphone, merrily giggles “Hi all! Sorry to stomp on everyone’s kissing prospects, but ‘cause of the black out, we’re running out of diesel for the generator, soooo… gig ends here! Fireworks will be in a few minutes, we love safety so would everyone please reach the top of the beach while the lights are still on? Also. If you waited this long to… uhm, you know” another bubble pops “cockblock’s on you! Now, shoo!”

Which, marginally good, as in, no sudden assault from a Heavenly platoon led by Sandalphon, but also, for Earth and all the fossil fuels underneath it’s sake, why the seeds of own destruction in evil deeds etcetera, had to sprout right now?

It wasn’t exactly now, from Crowley’s timeline. Since it happened, he’s stopped time, Aziraphale included, screamed his lungs into the still sky until oxygen supplies lasted, in what would have been a choice of curses in long dead but very figurative languages, if vowels were included and there were other consonants a part from the Ss, collapsed to the ground in snake form, curled and curled and curled in the sand hissing, until he finally calmed down enough to not downright burn the bandstand, damned them all by the way, with so much hellfire not even the whole water in the cold sea could smother the flames until every last plank was turned to ashes at the bottom of the shallow coast, to be pissed over by every passing seal in the coming century.

Do seal piss?

And with that though, he snaps time back.

Aziraphale is recalibrating. Lost his momentum, he’s switched his brain back on, and found himself lacking in two things: he’s not Talked to his demon yet, and they’re in the middle of a moving crowd while this really needs a quieter arrangement. He takes a moment to look around for a suitable spot. Well, that will rather do.

“How about we see the fireworks from… Crowley? Why are you all covered in sand?”

Crowley’s hastily remade human flashy façade crumples in a shrug and some inhaled consonants. Should’ve gotten drunk, give himself a plausible reason to be that wasted.

“Well. Let there be… not so much beach on you” Aziraphale sighs, snapping fingers, then holds up his hand “If you please?”

He’ll please to start where they left off. But his corporation meanwhile has nodded out of muscle memory, so he soon finds Aziraphale hand around his, steady, a miracle trickling around them.

 

[Edge of the Seven Sisters]

They reappear on top of the cliff, standing over the last patch of grass before the edge, it’s dark, but it smells of luscious green and feels smooth and fresh under their bare feet.

White walls below them, the empty expanse of the sea as far as they can see in front, reaching them with his breeze, and just the humans in between, down in the sand.

There is no one else up here, in the darkness, and Crowley cannot see the stars from behind his sunglasses, so he pulls them away automatically. Checking his work still up there, bits of his own still shining. Willed ages ago from the void out of his hope and imagination, still burning stubbornly like unanswered questions.

“I’m sorry” he hears, in a soft voice from his Angel at his right, he’s wringing his hands and Crowley instantly mourns his glasses. No way to put them back on now, without looking like he’s running into hiding. Must be the beginning of a backpedal, but he cannot stop pushing for answers, can he? Even if it hardly ever ends well for him when they come.

“Do you… regret it?” he manages to say, gesturing shakingly at the two of them standing on a wall at the edge of a world.

Do you regret, losing your everlasting holy seat for a fleeting ball always on the verge of self-destruction, do you regret all the lies the arrangement costed you, do you regret centuries living in fear of being found out, each stolen moment paid with months away, do you regret I came back at all, in that church, after I let you be safe and unperturbed for so long, do you regret almost dying twice, do you regret not knowing what will be of us if it happens again?

Do you regret me?

There is a sudden rustle and a gleam of white so white even the pale light from below is enough to outline every feather. Aziraphale’s left wing curves behind him, gentling swaying in the breeze, glowing warmth into his shoulders even without touching.

“No! My dearest boy, never. I… should be better with words, shouldn’t I? All that I hold most dear, has come from that day. Them, their world and its wonders and creations…” oh bless it, just say it as it comes, weren’t you done with perfection? And with being a coward. Out with it. Now. Now means now. So, NOW.

“…you.”

The first fireworks whistle up until they explode in a myriad of speckles of light, mixing with the stars above. He looks toward them, but now he’s started, and keeps going.

“Especially you. But I do have regrets. I regret not trusting you sooner, all the terrible lies I told you and I told myself and… what I never said. The world was ending, it could have been the last time…”

“Aziraphale. World ending, so. Even… cool spooky demons, were a bit scared. May have said things they didn’t mean.”

Ruby fountains are up in the sky, turning brighter and golden as they fall.

“Had I told you immediately about the book, it could have been easier on us. Instead, when you telephoned in the bookshop, I called you a friend… only to better deceive you. I’m appalling, I’m…”

“Angel. Didn’t have a plan. Mine sucked, anyway. Been for the best the kids got time to do their own thing.”

“You had to use Holy Water! I’ve been so fixated…”

“Angel”

“So stupid, you were right you know? I was accosted by those awful Archangels and yet I still tried…”

“Aziraphale, Angel, listen. Do you know what I was doing, right before telling you it was stupid to try and talk to Her?”

Aziraphale finally turns to him, so it’s Crowley turn to look away at the fireworks. “Tried to talk to Her. Demon interceding.” he let out a shaking laugh “Beats anything on the stupidity scale really.”

It surely beats anything on the love scale. Unforgivable, as he’s put it, appealing for others to be used a mercy he’s not had. “Oh, Crowley. Not stupidity. If I may dare say… faith enough She couldn’t mean to end them. And here they are indeed, throwing their fireworks up in the sky. You’ve always known, what needed questioning. Take the Ark, they told me, the plan needs everyone drown, and… I stayed put. I should have ventured out, picked them up from the water one by one. See what She really wanted.”

“I should’ve tempted Shem into selling the Ark’s lumber on the black market. Some pile of wood, that was. Probably invented deforestation. Couldn’t start the flood without Noah on the boat.” He stays silent just for a beat. “Why didn’t you tell me about how unicorns did… unicorns?”

“Oh, that seemed inappropriate. For an Angel, to… give the talk.”

“Lest it’d taint an innocent demonic soul? We could still have unicorns! Think they’d be softer to ride. Could probably sleep on the go, among all those fluffy feathers.”

He’s not, at all, daydreaming about falling asleep between Aziraphale’s shoulder blades while his wings are out, as much as the wings owner is not, at all, in birds and bees mood. Crowley is chit chatting now, letting him an easy side exit, should he want to pretend they’re done talking. But he’s not taking it. Not tonight. He’s just about to throw open the main entrance.

“You tell me, how soft feathers feel.”

Whatever question Crowley was about to utter, is cut short by the unexpected embrace of white feathers, coming down all around his shoulders, as the wing behind him folds gently but firmly around his back, pulling him closer. Warmth, and a touch so full of care he doesn’t even know how to begin to process. Suddenly the fireworks look far brighter, his eyes probably reverted to entirely yellow, slits larger. And far blurrier, but he’s not commenting on this fact, thought the blurring may explain why he doesn’t see the hand approaching, before he feels the fingertips on his cheek. His own wings unfold on their own against the white ones, unable to stay a dimension apart. Aziraphale. Love you, Angel. My Angel.

“My angel. I love you.”

How did he say that? He cannot find his voice and it surely won’t sound so sure and crystalline, not while he’s hiccupping like a starved duck trying to swallow a pastry whole… it cannot possibly?

“I do love you. So very much, my angel” Aziraphale repeats, slowly, as making sure to be heard over the last barrage of fireworks and sobs, whose origin he’s not commenting on either. It’s so, so… outrageous, said right to his snake eyes, that he somehow fails to answer the declaration he’s hoped six hundred years for, to scrap the little remaining air from his lungs.

“’M not! Not!”

“My dearest demon. I know. But not to Heaven, to me, and in your very own definition. I lost my home too. And even before, I’ve been scared, for so long, and told in every detail how unfit I was. All that is left of me upstairs, is probably a hefty folder listing all my faults. But you’ve come to my side, century after century. Reminding me how warm and freeing love should feel, despite all of Heaven seeking to convince me otherwise, leaving me your questions, so I could find my way even as we wandered apart. You’ve kept your faith in me, even when I gave you little reason to. So you see. You certainly are, you have been since the very beginning, my guardian angel. And I love you dearly, my beloved demon, my best friend, from your brilliant eyes to your dark scales. And I would really, really like to kiss you now. If… you may want me this way too?”

Crowley’s autopilot slowly, very slowly, nods once.

Kiss? And the whole lot of everything before kiss?

A nod, really Crowley?

His true form engages in a higher dimensional cringe, he’s supposed to have something better than a nod to show after 6000 years, but, unfortunately, no higher brain function is, well, functioning. 6 millennia worth of love trying to pour themselves into a demon with a snake brain squeezed into a rather tight corporation fitted into an even tighter outfit, bit out of specifications here, so excuse him if he’s downright panicking.

Cannot be real, low oxygen please breath, will turn snake halfway, cannot keep good things, won’t last, very low oxygen, emergency airways procedure will initiate in six, five, burnt thing undeserving, four, Angel, Demon, probably explode, three...

But he just looks still from the outside, much like a frozen app looks fine until further interactions are attempted, so Aziraphale has gently turned Crowley’s face his way, thumb still softly caressing skin now freckled with sparse scales, and then he his angling his own head, fireworks shining over his curls, beaming eyes closing and soft lips parting, taking a last breath and

“HCCPP!!”

And not just a giant hiccup making his whole being flinch upward, for good measure, his snake tongue has flipped out full speed and collided with Angel’s closing eyelashes.

So now he knows how Angel’s eyes taste, and he is appraising the length of the grass at his feet (just checking they’re still there) while Aziraphale is nursing his eyeball with the hand that has of fucking course left his cheek. Vegetation looks thick enough to hide in in snake form, possibly forever. Major flaw in the plan is, he’s nowhere near a state of mind allowing for miracles. Turns now, would probably become a scaly overboiled moebius noodle and aimlessly crawl in circles until he rolls down the cliff. Still more dignified than what he’s doing, which is, more hiccups, and more snot. Just how much mucus can a human corporation discharge in seconds?

There is a soft hand back on his, pulling him sitting down, while Aziraphale’s wing carefully lifts his dark feathers so they will lay over a clean patch of grass instead of being crushed under his very sorry ass.

Aziraphale loves him. He knew, squarely, but. But. There was always some but. To hear him say it aloud.. there a not buts left. My beloved demon, my best friend.

It’s scary. Crowley had nothing left after the Fall and nowhere to build a thing, not until the Garden. And then he’s spent six millennia arguing and waiting and worrying over his Angel, for their side, which lasted all of six minutes, from Aziraphale’s call about the Antichrist’s whereabouts to an empty burning bookshop. Crowley had nothing again and nowhere was due by teatime.

So unconsciously, he starts a countdown from six minutes to zero, even as the steady weight of a solid arm keeps him close. Aziraphale has not stopped smiling, but he seems to be giving him a bit of time to get his scales together. Angel’s looking back at the light show down on the beach, his eyes happy but shining. He’s going to start crying again if he sees Angel teary, even if they are happy tears, because he’ll think at how many times there may have been other kind of tears on that much-loved face while he couldn’t be there for him.

So the humans, down there, are what he turns to look at. There’s been a pause in the display after a barrage of pale blue fireworks left behind a thick curtain of smoke, slowly rising above the waves. There’s quiet like before a new beginning.

A projector switches on, and a wobbly image of the Earth as seen from space shines over the smoke curtains, against the blue background of the sea. The golden yellow of deserts, green speckles of fields and forests, the vast azures of the ocean and the violet shades of the tallest mountains ranges. All encircled in white clouds, and then the desert of space around it, waiting to be traversed next. It looks beautiful, soft, and hurt and fragile and… yet, good things, sometimes are far stronger than they look, far too much loved to be left to fade. His countdown slows, and is forgotten.

“It’s like the garden’s still here, but, larger. Grown with them. It’s like” he powers through a hell scorching blush, trying to make it up from the nod with some fucking words cause if he keeps telling Angel he loves him with succulents and books and hot cocoa mix, they are going to find a way to miracle the bookshop ten stories taller without anyone in Soho perceiving the change “Colors of your eyes, Angel. Earth looks. Like you.”

The projected Earth is slowly rotating, the half cast in shadow coming into view, and with it the bright yellows of the city lights, the last orange of the sunset over the clouds, and an artist’s impression of red lava puffing out from volcano ranges.

“And you are, my dearest guardian demon, the color of everything that keeps it warm and guides it through the night.”

As there’s just a crescent of sunny side left, the projection morphs, colors growing brighter, bleeding away from the fading globe to settle into a bow. It’s a bit blurry because the smoke curtain is losing its shape and twirling away into the night breeze, but it’s still clear what it was supposed to be.

“You would need all the colors for a proper rainbow. You know, while I was keeping guard over the Garden. Always felt like something was missing. Why was I alone? Two gates, but just one Guardian. But I wasn’t alone. I’ve never been alone since. We’ve probably been godfathers far before Warlock, haven’t we? Well, tried to, at least.”

New fireworks erupt, white and golden pinpricks of blinding light, further messing up the smoke, and if some vague impression of a rainbow may still be visible from the beach, as seen from above their cliff the colors are all mixed up, curling into each other, dots of light sparkling and then turning into smoke as a new round of bigger fireworks bloom into a cascade of fresh tiny stars, glimmering between colors and night. With a final triple boom load enough to startle the demon away from Aziraphale, toward the display below.

A nebula, is a free-form rainbow. It has the colors of a rainbow, but none of the neat and orderly mockery he still remembers hanging over flooded wastelands. He liked nebulas. He still does. Nebulas are where things begin again. It will go well.

When Crowley turns to his Angel again, Aziraphale is smiling his best kind of smile. Beaming, warm and full of love, with a topping of mischief in the making. He looks like how he looks like, when about to bite into a new culinary marvel.

“You’re not hiccupping anymore.”

And then Crowley is just, picked up, wings, long legs and all, Angel-handled into Aziraphale’s arms and wings, and kissed swiftly, before anything else can happen, but nothing explodes, ‘xcept his heart because it’s so much and he’s n… so he’s kissed again, kindly, slowly, between soft Ngks he’s going to deny… another time, too busy emitting them right now.

And then just hold tightly, tucked against Aziraphale’s chest, feathers curled against feathers, soft fingers carding through his red curls (screw fashion, he is going to keep them long indefinitely, if that’s how it feels. It feels like he’s going to melt where he is) care and protection fiercely glowing off the Principality. It is… he’s not going to admit to thinking ‘ineffable’, but it rather is. An embrace six thousand years in the making, yet worth it.

For now, he basks in it like a snake curled in the first sunlight over the Garden, but then, he was just stealing a bit of warmth meant for others. And if it was always meant for him too, I will not say. He wouldn’t have enjoyed it as much. He smiled again, that day, for the first time.

This, he knows it’s meant for him. And as soon as Aziraphale hold loosen for just a moment, he untangles his arms to hug him back, he can now, and Aziraphale is here and safe and loved, he’s his Guardian Demon, he’ll make sure he’ll always be, and if is arms bend a little more than anatomically correct to encircle him better - until there are soft curls resting against his cheek, wet eyelashes closing against his neck and white feathers relaxing under his fingertips - that’s between him and his joints.

 

 

Notes:

[1] It’s the actual name of one feature in that area of the Carina Nebula. There’s a nice paper (https://iopscience.iop.org/article/10.1086/383291/fulltext/) about it for astronomy lovers, they went all in with the 666 number they got, the relevant areas of the main picture are marked with the letters D–A–E–M–O–N–I–C and the study concludes HH 666 IRS is an “omen” to find more newly forming stars in the Carina Nebula. I’m possibly going to say ineffable.
[2] Angel’s equivalent of watching the first part of ep. 3 on loop
[3] A hex in Middle Egyptian he’s learned spying on Sandalphon during the seven plagues. Been useful to pretend it was his idea, he ended up getting a commendation from Hell for something Sandalphon got a commendation for from Heaven.